Wednesday

Outside The Angelica Theatre

I. Nothing Personal

There's a dead girlsplayed out on South street;the slit-tit-to-twat reflexof some human situation left to gel on the drag-filleted in fuck-me rags with scream-pink thongsyanked to dangle from an anklelike the sex-crime victim in a Russ Meyer flick

but that's not Shari Eubankface-up in technicolor,mudhoney hair clotted to a curb;just another vixen caught without her bad-bitch suitwhen something smiled too long, stood too close-kissed and told us allwhat really happens when the movie's over.

GRIND IT UP AND SPIT IT OUT, THEY SAID

Eat Your Words

"I know we're not saints or virgins or lunatics; we know all the lust and lavatory jokes, and most of the dirty people; we can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don't know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don't care that we don't."— Dylan Thomas